Only Being Friends
by just jen
Summary: Set late in season 4. There’s reference to a case, but this is not a reference to a specific episode, just something that seemed necessary to the story when I imagined Starsky walking into the bar.


Brake-lights smeared red on the road ahead, a glowing trail that Starsky followed half blind. On his right, the sky was gradually darkening, one last streak of red and orange as the sun blazed its exit, turning to lavender and grey overhead and blue through the left hand window. Night-driving (or early evening driving, in this case) could be scarily seductive, as he paid more attention to scenery than turn-offs or even other cars.

As it happened, if he hadn't been watching the roadside (roofs silhouetted in the glow of the sunset, neon bar signs glowing faintly in the failing light) he might never have seen the pile of beige flotsam that was Hutch's car, parked untidily in the lot of a bar he had come to know well.

Immediately forgetting the groceries he'd picked up on the way home, he parked his car next to his partner's and walked into bar he'd spent several evenings in lately, confused and worried in equal measure at the thought of Hutch going drinking without mentioning it to him. The building stood small and squat by a patch of empty waste ground where patrons had parked an array of equally beat-up cars: the only reason Hutch's had looked out of place in the row of junkers was simply that Starsky had never associated it with this type of place.

The faintly familiar walk to the door felt somehow habitual and unsettling, the evenings he'd spent there undercover crashing in his memory with thoughts of his last visit. Under one of the neons that had drawn his attention from the road, the door still bore the wounds of that last shoot-out, even though the lock he'd kicked in had been replaced.

Despite the faded grey light out on the road, his eyes took some moments to adjust to the bar's interior as he stepped inside. Discoloured walls were hung with black-out curtains to ward off any sunlight that might dare try to creep through the windows, and a haze of blue smoke hung lazily just a couple of feet above the heads of the few drinkers seated inside. This was not a place Bay City's residents came to drink: it was a place they came to hide.

The bar itself stood opposite the door, a small length of dull dark wood where men leaned or rested their weight on tall stools, drinking without speaking. One man worked the bar: perhaps a new guy brought in after the shooting? He gave Starsky nothing more than a cursory glance as he entered which said he was used to strangers and used to asking no questions. To the left was a pinball machine which stood silent and dark as the patrons around sat and talked in hushed tones. At least, they were hushed to Starsky, as the usual bar chatter was tempered by the bluesy tones of a battered upright piano to the right of the bar. He was not entirely surprised to spot Hutch on that side of the room, shockingly blonde in the blue smoky haze and dim mood lighting. Although the patrons at nearby tables were those who had been saved by Hutch and him just a couple of weeks ago, they left his partner to sit by himself. It was tough to tell if Hutch had even noticed: as Starsky watched, his partner nodded slowly in time to the tune being teased out of the old battered upright, heedless of anyone else in the room.

From this distance, and from the back, Starsky could not gauge his partner's mood: getting lost in a song could be anything from depression to boredom to delight.

As he skirted the edge of the room he recognised a few faces from the times he'd spent in the bar during the case. The few who recognised him nodded courteously or raised a glass, but did not interrupt their conversations or make any attempt to speak to him. That suited him just fine: he was much more interested in working out why his partner had gone drinking alone, without any mention of his plans or his reasons.

Finally standing at the farthest edge of the room by the edge of the low stage, Starsky could go no further without stepping into Hutch's eye line or crossing in front of the singer. From what he could see across the smoke-filled room, Hutch was focused entirely on that singer, not quite smiling but clearly enjoying the music.

Leaning carefully against the wall behind him, Starsky turned _his_ attention to the woman who held Hutch's. He wouldn't have pegged her as a natural performer: as she leaned against the piano her cheap dress clung to a figure that had a little too much to cling to and her bleached hair was pinned up into a style that might have been elegant when the evening started, but was beginning to droop. Her make-up failed to suggest the youth she seemed desperate to hang on to, and her painted lips parted as she sang to reveal teeth that tried to force their way out of her mouth. Apparently the other patrons were just as unimpressed as Starsky: they continued talking over her song as though she wasn't there at all. Yet Hutch was entranced.

Being unable to judge Hutch's mood and motives was disturbing somehow, a reminder of just how _off_ things had felt during the past few months. All the moments when he'd wondered if they'd lost whatever had kept them together so long: each one, in retrospect, felt exactly like this one, and it hurt.

Suddenly and strangely determined, Starsky strode around the tables, aware in an unfocused way of a brief flutter of polite applause as pianist and singer both stopped. The last patter died just as he reached Hutch's table, providing a peace in which Hutch could finally glance up and see him.

Perhaps he had expected surprise, or possibly indignation, an order to leave him the hell alone, maybe even no words at all as Hutch simply walked out. His partner's gesture for Starsky to take a seat was so bewildering that the hurt pinched once more, and Starsky felt suitably shamed for ever thinking that Hutch would send him away. He sat, searching for an opening to a conversation he'd never planned, when the piano chimed cautiously into life once more. Without a word Hutch turned his eyes back to the stage, not ignoring Starsky but making it clear he wanted to listen. Starsky would not complain. For now it felt easier to sit and think of an opening line: the words, once decided upon, could be saved for one song at least.

The singer no longer leaned against the piano. Now she sat centre stage, knees pressed together awkwardly as she could barely reach the floor from the bar stool on which she perched. She made no eye contact with her audience: like Hutch she focused her attention solely on the song.

On one side of the stage, the pianist played slow and easy, a song clearly familiar to him even though Starsky did not recognise what he played. She eased into the song like slipping into a cold pool, the pain in her voice subtle but definite. As Starsky listened, the words sent a prickle of déjà vu skittering through him. He tried to focus on the words, tried to place them, sitting immobile through two verses before realising it was simply a new arrangement of a song he'd heard a dozen times or more on the radio. As the realisation hit, so did a rush of goosepimples that rushed around his shoulders, crawled down his back and pooled around his hips.

Even the piano seemed to fade as the words settled around him: a tragedy of empty feelings and hopeless encounters that could make even the happiest of happily married folks feel alone. For Starsky, who had spent much of the past year at odds with the one constant in his life, the bleak sensation of isolation that somehow struck in a room full of people was deeply unnerving. The sudden and disarming realisation of his loneliness descended like nightfall in winter: quick and cold.

Strange how his usual first reaction – turning to Hutch – suddenly seemed more frightening than staying lonely. The singer sang on, telling her borrowed tale of heartache, and Starsky floundered. Tell Hutch he felt abandoned and wanted back the easy friendship they'd begun to lose without even being aware of it? Tell him here and now, in this bar?

Suddenly anxious and fighting the urge to stand and leave, he found the bar coming back into focus. The crowd had fallen silent, finally giving their attention to the singer, and the electricity, sprung from nowhere, felt almost dangerous. It ached to hear that pain: to think that they had allowed themselves to drift, to be only partners. Partners who worked better than any team they knew, but only partners. And in the midst of all this, Starsky did not want to look at him.

But this was something that needed to be shared. A song about feeling the same pain as another required the listener to do the same, and there was no one else.

Teetering on indecision, he turned, lifted his eyes. Just as Hutch did the same.

The look there was uncertain, questioning: _do you feel it too?_ Starsky wanted to confirm, to say something, but such tangible silence as this was not to be broken. Answer, or something like it, sparkled then in Hutch's eyes, understanding in his gaze, a smile somehow subtly different from any he had seen these past some months. It was there, passing unspoken as the singer sang, in the words she chose for them. _Let's stop pretending. Look behind it, partner, remember what's there._

That should have been all. They could have left it there. But Starsky did not want to look away and go back to that reverent silence the singer had demanded, and when they had gazed at each other for maybe five seconds more, it seemed he could not look away. To keep looking would make him more uncomfortable, but to look away would be to admit that he felt uncomfortable, and would then have to think about why he was uncomfortable. Would have to admit there was something more in that gaze, and that perhaps there was something anomalous in these two men looking at each other over a stained glass-top table in a smoky barroom, and he was not ready to think about that just yet.

But as he continued to watch and carry on their silent exchange, he saw an echoing shift in Hutch's expression, and knew also that Hutch had seen that change in him. His confusion and realisation were there for Hutch to see, and since Starsky had no clue how to react, the next move was his to make.

Except it had been made for them. Just as Starsky felt himself unable to look any longer, the singer let her last note fade away and the pianist struck one last key, and the rest of the barroom rushed back towards them in a flurry of surprised applause and resumed conversation. It seemed as good a moment as any to leave. Hutch took a bill from his wallet and left it on the table, hardly even aware of what it was, and without a word he rose and headed for the door, Starsky following automatically.

Leaving the bar had Starsky feeling terribly exposed, as they walked to their separate cars under a darkening sky that seemed painted on and stiflingly close. California heat could not keep him from shivering, a vague tremor that shook his shoulders. For one moment Hutch paused, turning to look at Starsky over the top of his opened car door: his face held no shade of feeling other than acceptance that Starsky was there and would follow him. Starsky nodded his understanding before climbing into his car and keying it into life.

He did not switch on the radio while he drove, even though a distraction from his thoughts would have been welcome. The obvious thing to think about was what would happen when they reached whatever destination Hutch had chosen. Although Starsky could not say what would happen, there was no escaping the knowledge that it would be something earth-shatteringly final. He drove through a wilderness that held no promise of hope at its end, only the promise that it would end tonight.

In the blue-grey of the approaching night, he focused only on the tail-lights of Hutch's car, never allowing another vehicle to slip between them and cut him off from his quarry.

When Hutch pulled up outside Starsky's own apartment, their location came as a complete surprise to Starsky, who had to think a moment to work out that it was simply closer to the bar than Hutch's. He parked next to the other car, realising grimly that nerves had set in with the determined flutter of a trapped butterfly, beating flimsy wings against the window in a suicide-bid to escape. Fingers fumbled with the door catch, knees almost buckled as he stood. Hutch waited, carefully casual by his car until Starsky led him to the door, walking in front of his partner to ensure eye-contact was out of the question.

It took three attempts to fit his key into the lock, with clammy fingers that slipped as he tried to turn it and let them inside. Still he made no move to glance back at Hutch, taking one, two, three steps into the apartment, long strides that took him far enough that he felt the empty space behind him. He drew breath, stealing himself for a tirade or tears, whatever catalyst they had been heading for in this strange distant partnership of the past few months.

Starsky turned. Hutch had closed the door, but made no further move inside. He faced his partner, who appeared cagey but not about to flee. The hush from the bar rushed back in, filling the space between them, and Starsky hated it. Perhaps somewhere there were words that could ease the taut silence, alleviate the friction, but words had never been his strongpoint, and Hutch had picked the worst time to give up his usual eloquence. His only option was to close the space and make the silence smaller.

One step forward, and the silence was concentrated, but the flutter in his belly had kick-started some adrenalin rush, and in a fight-or-flight situation Starsky had never been one to run. He would meet it head on, whatever it was, and give it everything he had.

Across the wilderness, Hutch stepped closer too, putting them one pace apart. One of them should say something, explain or ask what was going on, but Starsky had no words left and could not even make his mouth form them anyway. Once more the exchange was in a glance, as his eyebrows quirked in query and Hutch's eyes reflected a resigned confusion. Just that damn silence, tar-thick and cloying, so he stepped forward again.

There was some touch of relief on Hutch's face that Starsky had been the one to move: confirmation that he was not about to be cast off. Starsky's brief intention had been to take Hutch in a warm hug, to show his desire to ease the discord between them, but in the brief moment of that one step he had imagined himself hugging Hutch and it was not enough. He would pull Hutch towards him and keep on pulling, until one of them was inside the other or else they were both suffocated, and still it was not close enough.

Both their gazes lowered, focusing on the same spot somewhere between their chests. He could hear Hutch's shallow breathing, could almost feel the hands that hung by Hutch's sides, bare inches from his own. As if hearing the thought, Hutch moved one hand and closed the fingers around the left cuff of Starsky's jacket, tugging it softly. Suddenly needing to equalise and find some point of contact, Starsky took a gentle fist-full of Hutch's lapel. His action pulled them closer to breath from the same little pocket of air, and when he inclined his head he could feel a wisp of Hutch's hair brush against his own curls.

Still not close enough. He pulled on Hutch's jacket until their chests bumped, and then Hutch's mouth became his point of focus. They were sharing air, Hutch breathing in as he exhaled, suddenly hyper-aware of his own mouth. He tried to make his lips form Hutch's name, wanting to push out the word and at least attempt to vocalise one of the myriad thoughts that buzzed in his brain, but could not summon the energy to speak. All he could do was fall, and when Hutch met him halfway it was heaven.

His relief became a sigh that rushed through his nose, the feather-press of their lips stifling the accompanying groan. Hutch let go of his sleeve and hesitantly laid the flat of his hand on Starsky's waist. Long fingers curled around, slipped under his jacket, bunching to grip his shirt. Starsky's left hand, now redundant, slid up his partner's chest and around to tangle in his hair, cupping his head and holding them together. Hutch matched the gesture, and as their kiss ended they still held fast, breathing hard more from shock than exertion.

At first he focused on that same point in between them, terrified of what he might see if he looked at Hutch, but when he felt the other's anticipation he raised his eyes.

With his surprised almost-smile and flushed skin, Hutch looked so _young_. Starsky wondered if he appeared the same, caught off-guard by such a kiss it might as well have been his first. The thought brought the beginning of a grin to his own face, and that set Hutch smiling more. Surely now was the time to speak. One of them, certainly, must break the silence and ask.

But his fingers still laced in Hutch's hair, and Hutch's chest rose and fell against his own and words seemed so hard right now. So he kissed Hutch again. The smile stayed there, for all his attempts to kiss it away, and after a moment he found himself chuckling, moving to rest his forehead against Hutch's instead. Their breath escaped in laughing bursts, and Starsky realised with a prickle of delight that it was the first time they had smiled all evening. And if they were smiling, was there any need to ask now?

Hutch certainly did not think so, for he had moved both hands to the small of Starsky's back beneath his jacket and was eyeing Starsky's mouth in a way that couldn't be more inviting. Starsky indulged him eagerly, pressing lips and hands and holding him close. He became aware of a heated flush starting somewhere in his chest. It moved upwards at first, filling his cheeks, but when Hutch's fingers worked his shirt free of his waistband and made contact with the bare skin on his back, the heat suddenly _descended_, and he jerked back. Not free of Hutch's grip, that was too far now, but definitely away. His partner looked up from under fair lashes, and there again was that unspoken dialogue:

_Already? Is that what you need?_

Yes.

As they stood, Hutch flexed his fingers, brushing over one small patch of skin, and a shiver chased the heat down Starsky's back. His eyelids flickered as he inhaled sharply, and Hutch took that as assent, closing in to kiss the neck that was exposed as Starsky let his head fall back. And finally the silence was shattered as Starsky let out a moan of pleasure and relief, as soft lips and practised fingers worked over his skin.

He could have let Hutch continue, wherever it was he intended to go, but the memory of his partner being so distant, of the two of them drifting, meant that already he missed Hutch's kiss: ludicrous to miss something after mere seconds, but there it was anyway. An ache in his gut that made him never want to give up that kiss, ever. One hand on Hutch's cheek, he pulled Hutch back up to face him, looked a moment to share that sentiment, then kissed him a third time, hard and wet and open-mouthed.

The response was immediate, their understanding of each other heightened in such close proximity. Hutch's hands on his hips guided him backwards and they stepped together, dancing blind across the apartment. When Starsky next opened his eyes, it was because his calves had bumped against the edge of his bed and he needed to keep from toppling over. He was slightly surprised to note that they had both shed jackets along the way and Hutch had gotten all but one button of Starsky's shirt undone. Disbelief showed on Hutch's face too, and he paused to catch his breath Starsky had to reach up and pop the top button of Hutch's shirt just to prove to him that yeah, this was where they were headed. _See where silence has gotten us, boy?_

Buttons were dealt with slowly, cautiously, as if the act might reveal something entirely new. Nakedness was nothing new, but understanding that Hutch's skin was flushed because of him caused him to fumble like a novice. What he wanted was to lay his hands on all that skin, not just to feel it but to stroke and pet and show Hutch just how good it might be, but right then he could barely hold his hand steady. Might there be another opportunity, when he could really take his time and do all that? God, he hoped, but would Hutch? He couldn't ask, couldn't speak, could only look and try to guess and hope he had read his partner correctly. Because when Hutch had divested him of his shirt and Starsky pulled them both together again he knew he could not hope to go so slowly so soon.

Pants and underwear were trickier to deal with, and they both wobbled and had to hold each other steady, taking a full minute between kisses to have them both standing exposed. Starsky wanted to look, take in what he had in actuality seen before but never like this, but found he could not take his eyes from Hutch's face. Even that was too much then, and when they kissed the feel of warm bare skin under his hands was so much that he might never be able to open his eyes again. But this time as they moved together he had the sensation of all of Hutch's body against his, from lips to chest to knees, and oh, everything in between. Once more he wished he could pull Hutch closer, close enough to get inside him, and 'inside' brought terrifying thoughts but he couldn't let go. Instead he steered Hutch to the bed, sinking with him and stretching out carelessly until Hutch was under him, and his weight at least put him a little closer.

They rolled together, playing at dominating as they kissed, mostly to enjoy the feel of the other's body against his own. Who was over who did not matter since neither of them really led the other, but the movement, the opportunity to wriggle against each other set up such delightful friction that Starsky at least could not hold back. Not fully aware enough to be surprised by his own boldness, he reached between them with his left hand. As he did, Hutch rolled them over to their sides to free up enough space, and then joined with his right hand. Their wrists bumped as they struggled, and it was difficult to kiss: their mouths merely smudged against each other as they pushed and arched. Not that Starsky minded. His attention had focused entirely on the sensation growing deep in his belly, and on wondering if Hutch felt it too, the way he seemed to share everything with Starsky tonight. As they moved, the heat and the agitation grew and grew: they drove on together. Starsky grateful and determined now that their drifting had ceased, and suddenly every muscle in his body seemed to tense all at once. Such tension could only lead to explosion, and Starsky's came thundering in waves, bucking him almost out of Hutch's grip and causing him to lose his hold on his partner as Hutch shuddered next to him.

Once more his eyes came to focus on a region around Hutch's chest, which heaved as he breathed deeply. He looked up only when his head lolled back, and there was that smile again on Hutch's face. He mirrored it unconsciously, finally still enough to manage another kiss, soft and slow this time.

The silence that settled around them as they arranged the bed covers around each other and moved to rest face to face was so comfortable Starsky did not even notice it. Arms draped loosely over each other's hips, they simply relaxed into it. No need to ask now, Starksy decided. Maybe later they might find the ability to speak, could discuss whatever was between them and talk it into making sense. Just then, however, all he could manage was to watch Hutch and read in his eyes the same acceptance, before drifting just enough to doze gently, his last coherent thought a fervent wish that there would be a chance before morning to try once more, to go slow enough to catch up on what they had missed.

~~~~~


End file.
